


seeing you got ritualistic

by brophigenia



Series: kavinsky does the gangsey on fire [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Car Sex, Cunnilingus, First Time, Hand Jobs, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Multi, Sorry Not Sorry, threesome- F/M/M, y'all knew this was coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Heard you were lookin’ for me,” Kavinsky drawls, all bright cocaine-white teeth and red sunglasses to match the new Mitsu, his white ones long since cracked to pieces in a field on the outskirts of Henrietta. It’s almost fully dark outside; Blue is reluctantly impressed by his dedication to the whole sleazeball drug dealing douchebag aesthetic, if nothing else. Gansey at her side is vibrating with nerves and anticipation. It’s almost surreal to be the calm one in this scenario, but she supposes she’s had a lot of practice with the bizarre and improbable, growing up the way she had.“Might’ve been,” Blue allows, and tangles her fingers in Gansey’s to both reassure him and make a statement. From the amused cock of Kavinsky's head, she’s pretty sure he reads it loud and clear.(Listen, at this point you know the drill. Kavinsky didn't die, this is set between Blue Lily, Lily Blue and The Raven King, and Blue and Gansey are literally on fire.)





	seeing you got ritualistic

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Threesomes in the Evo, they're in the fucking Monmouth parking lot, I'm not even sure if physically all three of them could fit in the passenger seat but hey, bear the fuck with me on this one. Kavinsky is trash. I am trashier.

“Heard you were lookin’ for me,” Kavinsky drawls, all bright cocaine-white teeth and red sunglasses to match the new Mitsu, his white ones long since cracked to pieces in a field on the outskirts of Henrietta. It’s almost fully dark outside; Blue is reluctantly impressed by his dedication to the whole _sleazeball drug dealing douchebag_ aesthetic, if nothing else. Gansey at her side is _vibrating_ with nerves and anticipation. It’s almost surreal to be the calm one in this scenario, but she supposes she’s had a lot of practice with the bizarre and improbable, growing up the way she had.

“Might’ve been,” Blue allows, and tangles her fingers in Gansey’s to both reassure him and make a statement. From the amused cock of Kavinsky's head, she’s pretty sure he reads it loud and clear.

_“Interesting,”_ he draws the word out obnoxiously, but in a way that makes her want to laugh. “Dick and Buffy, wanting to walk on the wild side.” He furrows his brows abruptly; she can smell a familiarly skunky-sweet stench rolling off him even from where she and Gansey stand across the lot in front of the Pig, so it’s no wonder he’s spaced when he goes on musingly. “Was Buffy the witch? Which one was the witch?”

“Willow.” Gansey replies helpfully, and Blue wonders how this is her life. Or, how this is not even the _weirdest_ _thing_ about her life.

“Fuckin Willow!” Kavinsky crows, snapping his fingers. It’s a disturbingly dorky move; Blue narrows her eyes and wonders exactly how much of _that_ is hiding beneath all the layers of Kavinsky’s _charm._

“So listen,” she interjects, before either of them can go on to make this exchange any more mortifying. “You remember that _thing_ you asked me, when we…” She trails of meaningfully. Kavinsky grins, suddenly sharper than usual, less scattered. A wolf of a boy.

“Gonna have to be more specific, _duchess,”_ he purrs. Blue’s cheeks flush with blood so quickly it’s a wonder her knees don’t buckle. She thanks her darker complexion for hiding just how affected she is by _Joseph Kavinsky._

“That _thing,”_ she emphasizes. “The answer to your question is _no._ Not at all. Ever. Anywhere.” She’s rambling and she cuts herself off sharply, raising her chin and refusing to be embarrassed by it. She has full bodily autonomy and can make decisions about her sex life for _herself,_ thank you very much. She will not be embarrassed just because she’s behind her peers in making ill-advised decisions influenced by raging hormones and peer pressure.

Gansey is _wheezing_ at her side. She would be concerned if she hadn’t figured out through some _illuminating_ (gods, she’s beginning to sound just like him) late-night calls that he tends to do that when he’s horrendously turned on but unsure if that’s _allowed._ Gansey is all about communication and _permission,_ until he breaks and he’s _not,_ anymore.

Kavinsky’s grin becomes _alarmingly_ wide, his eyes dark when he tucks his chin down so he can peer above his sunglasses at them both. “ _Never?”_ He asks, sounding like Christmas and Hanukkah and the Fourth of July have come all at once. Wondering. “Damn, Dick, I could’ve fuckin _sworn_ you’d be into a little pussylicking.”

It’s _obscene._ Blue starts laughing, startled by the frank explicitness and _judgement_ in Kavinsky’s choice of words and tone. Gansey sputters, offended, trying to decide whether or not he’s allowed to _explain._ She decides to put him out of his misery, walking towards Kavinsky and dragging Gansey along with a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“See,” Blue says, stepping right into Kavinsky’s space. Night has fully fallen and they’re shielded from any prying eyes by its comforting blackness. “Here’s the thing. I’m _cursed.”_ It sounds considerably cooler than it actually is. Blue feels butterflies in her stomach and liquid heat pooling right in her pubic bone, pleasure so deep and untapped it feels endless. She doesn’t press her thighs together to chase the feeling but it’s a near thing. Kavinsky smells like pot and expensive cologne and, oddly, freshly-cut strawberries. It’s… not unpleasant. None of this is really unpleasant.

(She feels reckless and brave and invincible, Gansey warm and tall next to her. Who wouldn’t feel invincible with Gansey on their side?)

“Cursed,” Kavinsky repeats, leaning in until their mouths are almost touching. They’re sharing breath; it’s terribly compelling. Gansey’s hand tightens on hers, a spasm of _want_ echoing his punched-out little exhale of _God, Jane._

She’d heard that sound before. She’d heard him say those words in that exact tone. It made her smile, small and genuine and fond, even with her mouth _so close_ to Kavinsky’s. The dynamic between them had changed after their confrontation on the hazardous porch at 300 Fox Way; there had developed an understanding, once they’d admitted it, been honest about their respective nighttime adventures and the reasoning behind them. Been honest about _why_ they’d done it, about the power Joseph Kavinsky held over them.  
  
(That power, being, of course, that Joseph Kavinsky advertised himself as a soundingboard for the depraved, delighting in the messed-up sexualities that developed in small towns where the main attraction was a mystical landscape and an all-boys school for millionaire heirs.)

It was all very _mature_ and made Blue feel both grown-up and a bit hysterical, lightheaded when she thought of how she’d thrown herself at _Joseph Kavinsky,_ ordered him around and lived to tell about it. _Inflamed_ when she thought about Gansey’s stuttering, heated confession down the phone (by mutual agreement, they’d decided not to have the conversation face-to-face) of how he’d let Joseph Kavinsky _fuck_ him.

She’d had memories to keep her warm at night and a newfound transparency with Gansey that made her feel both secure and _achy,_ the knowledge that now she probably knew him better than anyone else in the world.

It should’ve been enough.

It should’ve, but it _wasn’t,_ because then there were the _dreams_ to contend with. She’d almost welcome Ronan’s nightmares over waking up drenched in sweat, slick between her legs from visions of Gansey, red-mouthed and dark-eyed, murmuring _you ever got head in a car?_ in Kavinsky’s voice. It became a reoccurring thing, hellish in its own right; she’d daydream in class about leaving Henrietta, about _not_ killing Gansey with a kiss, about Gansey going _with_ her to leave Henrietta, and eventually all roads led back to Gansey between her legs. She’d squirm in her seat with it, ducking her head and trying not to betray the sudden fiery ache that flared up and made her _want._

“If I kiss my true love,” she let her eyes flick in Gansey’s direction tellingly, all but spelling it out. “He’ll die.”

Kavinsky hummed, leaning forward to nip at her lower lip pointedly. “I’m a little _offended,_ Hermione,” he murmured. “You don’t think I could be your Prince Charming?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence without cackling. The sensation of him laughing against her mouth made her warm all over.

“Strangely, no,” she retorted wryly.

“As _lovely_ as this is,” Gansey said, stepping in closer so he was also pressed up along Kavinsky’s body, free hand sliding carelessly up his chest until he could wrap Kavinsky’s gaudy diamond chain around his fist. “I thought we were in the middle of _negotiating_ something, here.”

Kavinsky tipped his head back, baring his throat. It was a calculated sort of move. He knew how good he looked. Blue smeared a spontaneous kiss to the underside of his jaw, applying just a hint of teeth. She felt powerful. She felt like everything in the world could be hers, starting with Joseph Kavinsky. She could lay waste to him and move on to world domination; nothing was too far-fetched in this impossible night.

“Yeah, Dick,” Kavinsky _giggled._ “I’ll eat your girl out for you.” He paused, considering. “Nah, for me. Been too long since I munched some carpet.”

“You’re _terrible,”_ Blue complained, like she might in response to something especially noxious Ronan said. Like this was something it wasn’t.

“I’ll show _you_ terrible,” and that had even Gansey laughing a little, though he was still a bit huffy and schoolmarmish, not entirely _unwound._

That was okay, though. He’d unwind soon enough. Blue had _plans._

“Your car or ours?” She asked, with more bravado than she felt. She knew he’d say yes. She could _feel_ him, pressing against her stomach. He wanted her. He wanted Gansey. He wanted _them._

“S’that even a _question,_ Sabrina?” He took off his sunglasses and his eyes were _murder,_ mirth and intensity and _lust._

_“Blue,”_ she said, as firmly as she could with how _soft_ she felt in the thighs, realizing that they were really gonna do this. “If you’re going to be doing _this,_ you better call me by my _name.”_

_“Blue,”_ Kavinsky said with a flourish, jerking his head backwards at his car. The movement was restricted by Gansey’s hold on his necklace. She watched the way the chain dug into Kavinsky’s skin for a second, indenting it in a way that _had_ to be painful but only made his eyes darken further. “Can I eat you out in my car while your boyfriend watches?”

“You may,” she replied, feeling magnamious and, again, _light headed._

(What was her _life?)_

Kavinsky either had experience with this exact scenario or a great head for Tetris, because he maneuvered them effortlessly into the passenger seat of the Evo, throwing the lever until the seat was as far back as it would go and then shoving Gansey down into it with firm hands on his hips, ducking quickly to press a kiss to his mouth that was both hot and wicked. Blue was a bit stunned by it— she’d thought that it was hot in theory, of course, the idea of Gansey and Kavinsky kissing (and more) but the reality was both stranger and _hotter,_ spine-meltingly _hotter._

His hands on her hips were surprisingly gentle; that was what had surprised her about him, the first time they’d been _close_ like this. He was almost soft with her, though she could feel the coiled violence in him. It was… compelling. Interesting. It made her feel _curious._

(What would it feel like, to have him grip her harder? To scratch her nails down his skin? To make him gasp, and not entirely from pleasure?)

He positioned her in Gansey’s lap, her knees hooked indelicately around his until her legs were spread and she could barely stand even the feel of cool air from the vents going up her skirt, over where she was definitely _not_ wearing underwear.

Gansey was panting; he pressed his face into the crook of her neck and his breaths came out his nose with _force,_ like he was trying to control himself. He was trembling; his hands were unsteady as they skimmed over her thighs in a way she was sure he meant to be soothing but instead made her gasp out a little moan, a soft _fuck_ that he echoed. The vulgarity in his Crown Prince of Virginia voice was _stunning._ Blue never wanted this to _end,_ and it hadn’t even really _started._

Kavinsky folded himself into the footwell before her, slamming the door shut behind him so quickly there was no time to be startled or shy about him being suddenly between their spread legs, _grinning._

“I’m gonna just dive on in, tap out if you need to,” Kavinsky said, full of careful nonchalance. Blue knew it was for her benefit. He could see the way she was shivering. He didn’t ask if she was sure, which she appreciated— she _was_ sure, but she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t take an easy out if it were given.

She was nervous— that was was a given. She was even a little scared, maybe. Not of Kavinsky. Of herself. It was already so good— Gansey’s scent all around her, his _hands_ on her, the cool air in the car, _Kavinsky_ and his disarrayed, boyish _messiness._

His lips were so _soft,_ pressing into her inner thigh, half a foot from where she wanted him. His fingers dragged up from her ankles to the tops of her thigh high socks, playing with the hem there. She’d felt like a cliche putting them on, but she wanted to look the part— black stockings, short skirt, a long sleeved tee shirt she’d cut into strips and repaired with rows of safety pins that dragged cool and sharply metallic against her bare skin now with every breath. It was an appropriate outfit for a night like this, for the girl she was unleashing. _BlueOnFire._

Gansey’s hands curled around her ribs. She thought he was holding his breath. She could feel the heat of his cheeks on her skin.

Kavinsky trailed kisses up, up, _up,_ and then stopped just before he met anything _interesting._ He traded legs then, repeating the tease. She was practically _convulsing,_ her cunt clenching in time with her pounding heartbeat.

His eyes were _glowing_ when he met her gaze. And then. And _then,_ then there was his mouth _on her,_ open and soft and _wet_ like he was eating a _peach,_ and she didn’t know how she’d gone this _long—_ how she’d go on without _this,_ how her life would _ever_ be the same— it was. It was.

_It was._

She realized she was making a lot of noise and couldn’t bring herself to care; her hands were scrabbling around, squeezing anything she could reach in a stranglehold— the door, her skirt, Gansey’s thigh, Kavinsky’s hair. He groaned against her when she pulled on the top of his undercut. Her eyes rolled back in her head with the feeling of the vibrations; wildly, she wondered if she could order a vibrator online without everyone in the house finding out about it. Not that they’d _care,_ but— she couldn’t even _think._

“Gansey, Gansey, Gansey,” she chanted, her eyes squeezing tightly shut and her head turning, _seeking,_ he was _right there_ and maybe she really was gonna kill him after all, maybe this was how it happened— she could feel his breath on her lips—

“Hey, Sid and Nancy,” Kavinsky’s voice cracked out whip-sharp, unexpectedly loud in the car. They both jumped and snapped their attention to him, identically fucked up with blown pupils and messy hair and flushed cheeks. It was a good look; he preened for a second, and then shoved one of his hands beneath Blue to get a good grip on Gansey’s cock through his pants.

“Eyes on _me,”_ he snarled, waiting for them to nod in agreement before he bent himself again to his task, this time with the added coordination of rubbing Gansey through his ridiculous khakis.

When she came, Blue was sure that she was going to die. It felt like that, blackness descending and static in her ears and Kavinsky’s _mouth,_ lapping at her, _sucking,_ a _revelation_ — something momentous and terrible.

She didn’t die, but it was, by her calculation, a near thing. She both wanted to do it again immediately and also not do anything like it again for _another_ eighteen years. Would it lose its luster after the hundredth or so time? She didn’t think she could handle that.

Kavinsky’s hand was still working, under her. Gansey was gasping, his hands gone bruisingly-tight on her thighs to anchor himself. “Oh, Jesus— Jesus, Blue, _God,_ Kavinsky—“ his honeyed tones had given way to sandpaper rough urgency, his hips rocking up, snapping with terrible force.

“Shove over, Blue’s Clues,” Kavinsky told her as he surged upwards, and she barely had landed in the driver’s seat before he was on Gansey, pressing their fronts together and scrambling madly to undo their pants, wrapping one of his oddly-elegant hands around both of their cocks.

“Wanna taste, Dick?” He asked, and it took Blue a second to realize what he meant— by that time, Gansey was moaning into Kavinsky’s mouth and evidently doing his best to lick up all traces of _her_ that he found there, coming with a defeated groan all over his rumpled polo shirt.

Kavinsky followed, also all over Gansey’s polo. He collapsed against Gansey, laughing weakly.

“Go _team,”_ he toasted hoarsely, and Blue contemplated again all of her life choices. It could be worse, she decided. Her thighs spasmed and she groaned, throwing her elbow over her eyes.

“You sluts gonna make it or do I need to call you a hearse?” Kavinsky went on, patting at his pockets and fumbling down the window so he could light up a smoke. Beneath him, Gansey didn’t even twitch or make an effort to complain about secondhand inhalation and lung cancer.

Blue made a vague noise in the negative that most closely resembled the kind of sound that a dying badger might emit. Kavinsky acknowledged this with a kingly wave of his hand.

“Dick?” He asked, jostling his face a little bit. Gansey had gone slackjawed and muzzy, eyes closed. Even rumpled and slick-mouthed he still looked like he’d been carved from fucking marble. It was, truthfully, a bit obnoxious.

“Excelsior,” Gansey mumbled thickly, and Kavinsky’s laugh echoed through the car, the lot, the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
